


In the Pursuit of Fool's Gold

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Infidelity, M/M, Rhodey is the best bro, Royalty, Servant!Peter, poor writing, prince!Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Prince Tony is set to marry in three months time. His love for his servant Peter certainly complicates that.





	In the Pursuit of Fool's Gold

**Author's Note:**

> sorry bout this

A love story like this should start with _once upon a time_, but it doesn’t. Because this is how it always happens for the Starks. This is how it always starts: with something they want but can’t have.

“Which one is he?” Rhodey asks. His serious face is graver than usual, dark skin complimented by the gold threaded doublet he wears. The Stark insignia (an inverted golden triangle, inlaid with rubies) sits at his throat like a spider resting in a web, inspiring trepidation in the commoners he meets outside of the castle walls. Rhodey lifts a goblet to his lips to disguise the movement of his lips, and it reminds Tony of his own glass which he reaches for and drains.

Peter arrives then. The young man is the picture of modesty and reverence, head bowed, eyes down demurely. His clothes, though rough, are clean and clingy, displaying his lithe form and the strength beneath it. In his hands is a pitcher of wine, and Tony doesn’t offer the glass to him so that Peter might bend past him to get it, smelling of cloves from the kitchen.

“How are you, Peter?” Tony asks. His eyes must glitter like the rubies on his insignia as he watches the glass fill, the strong, soft hands that tip the pitcher steadily. The boy blushes red like he always does when Tony speaks to him.

“Very well, your grace. How—how are _you_?”

“I’m fucking tickled, Peter, thank you for asking.”

Lips pressed together to avoid smiling, Peter bobs into a bow and then retreats into the shadows. He circles the room expertly, refilling glasses. There are half a dozen other servants just like him, but Tony knows that when his glass runs low, it is Peter who will be there to fill it.

“That was him?” Rhodey asks.

Tony hums. Just the brief interaction has lifted his spirits until he feels as buoyant as the ships in the harbor.

“He likes you, too.”

Now Tony turns, the golden circlet on his head catching the candlelight. While he is fairly certain that Peter likes him—Tony is the prince, after all, King after his upcoming coronation which looms overhead like a gray cloud. Most women and men find him attractive for at least that reason alone—it is rare for his closest friend to offer him any sort of vindication. “What makes you say so?”

Rhodey tips his glass, which is empty. “He didn’t even notice.”

It is Tony’s turn to try to avoid smiling. But trust his most pragmatic friend and advisor to rain on his sunshine, because it is just a moment later that he asks, scanning the room: “And which one is the woman you’re betrothed to?”

-

Tony learns many things at a young age. After all, he is groomed for the throne from birth. He wastes away over ledgers and letters until the candles burn through their wicks; he wakes in the night, muscles jerking with memories from lessons in swordsmanship; he hides in the shadow of his father while the man hears disputes in the courts and sets decrees. All these things he learns, and maybe the most important thing is love. But his father doesn’t teach him that.

That is his mother’s doing. Tony learns tenderness when she wipes his tears; he learns forgiveness only when she bestows it upon him for some offense or another; he learns love when she puts her hand over his bruises and cuts sewn together with thread from the apothecary, when the anguish on her face makes him think that his wounds are her own. Love heals and hurts. 

For all the love he has for his mother, it is no wonder then that the next lesson he learns is to hate. And the easiest things to hate are the things that hurt her.

Howard is one of them. Howard and his paramours.

Add this to the thing Tony learns young: the difference between a wife and a lover.

To Stark men, a wife is the woman of royal blood who bears your legitimate children, and a lover is the commoner who bears your love. Howard’s love must be a disgusting burden to bear, Tony thinks, sitting with his mother in the next room while Howard fucks a serving girl or two in his chambers. More often than not, it is the same girl or two.

Tony sits and watches her work on an Opus Anglicanum, the sunlight coming in from the window catching the gold and silver threads. Sometimes he reaches out to stroke the rich velvet she is doing the needlework on.

All this, while Howard takes his lovers in the next room.

“Have you nothing else to be doing?” she asks him. Tony shakes his head. There is nothing else in the world to do—nothing he would rather do—than sit and suffer with her just so that she might not suffer alone. Her craftsmanship on the tapestry is stunning; his mother has always been gifted in the arts. When she lets him help, she always offers the sweetest praise: _oh Anthony, you have remarkable coordination. How do you always know just where the needle is even from beneath?_

When Howard finishes, the girls exit first, tucked back into their clothes, hair mussed. Then comes Howard, only in breaches, still damp with sweat. If he is surprised to see them outside his chambers, he doesn’t look it, nor does he look at all apologetic for his raucous lovemaking. His cheeks do flush with fury though, taking the needlework from Tony’s hands. “That is woman’s work,” he says. “Don’t teach him such things.”

For a moment he thinks that his mother will say something, maybe her mouth will open like the gates at the front of the castle, only instead of riders, a torrent of anger and hate and hurt will pour out. Just as he wishes it, all the fight seems to drain out of her. She takes the needle and golden thread from him. “As you wish,” she says.

“Why is it like this?” he asked her once. “Why does he do this and why do you let him?”

“This is how it has always been. Your father, your father’s father, and even his father before him. Starks have enough appetite for many stomachs.”

It’s a legacy he never could have wanted.

Yes, Tony learned love. He learned hate. He felt it well enough when he and his father passed maids in the hall and they blushed and curtseyed to the King. He felt it when he overheard laughter and japes as his mother and father danced together at the celebration given on the day he turned ten years old. Howard made a mockery of Tony’s mother. Maybe when she’d married him, she’d just been a girl who grew up on tales of even older princes and princesses, of true love and chaste kisses and lovers that nothing could bring asunder. Whatever she had dreamed of, Tony doubts it was this.

And the day she died with no one but Tony and the nurses at her bedside, Tony had made a promise to himself: he would never dishonor his wife in such a way.

-

“I highly recommend that we move the wedding closer.”

“I won’t do it,” says Tony.

The room tenses when he says such a thing, all the air sucked out from anxious inhalations. Rhodey is there at Tony’s side, ramrod straight. Howard has his own advisors, older and grayer than he is. Then there is Peter standing in the corner, quiet and still like a statue that will only come to life at their whims.

“The land is in disarray, Anthony,” says Howard. On the table is a map of the surrounding territories. With a wrinkled finger, his father points. “The three kingdoms around us are in ruin: to the north and east, a plague has decimated the population; to the south and east, war abroad has left the economy crippled; and the west kingdom lost its only heir years ago. All around us is chaos, and the people are afraid it will spread.

“Too long you avoided the throne with your errant ways. It’s time to marry and to make heirs. I will not let this kingdom die with me. The Stark name must live on.”

“I _am_ marrying,” Tony says. Rhodey shifts beside him, made anxious by the prince’s tone. It reminds him that he must temper himself; while soon he will be king, he is not king yet. “I have my lovely betrothed. The wedding is in three months time, and we plan to have no expenses spared. The flowers Virginia wants won’t bloom until the end of the warm season, which is still more than a month away. The silks from overseas will take that long to reach us if not longer.

“With how eager you are for heirs, it’s a wonder you didn’t reach inside mother and try to take me from the womb early. Patience, father. A lesson you taught me long ago.”

After the miserable meeting has ended, just he and Rhodey and Peter are left in his chambers. Rhodey paces. If he didn’t keep his hair shorn, surely he would be trying to tear it free. “You shouldn’t antagonize him,” says his closest friend.

“I know,” Tony admits. The wine tonight is strong, and Peter has done well to keep his glass full. His head buzzes and his tongue feels loose in his mouth. “But he makes it so easy.”

“I’m trying to buy you time,” Rhodey says lowly. His eyes flicker to Peter, quiet and still in the corner, now with his head bowed. When they come back to Tony, they are no softer. Rhodey has never had a problem withholding softness to give Tony a swift kick in the rear. “The silks arrived weeks ago. Who has hidden them in his own personal chambers? _Me_. The flowers Princess Potts asked for? Both of us know that is nothing but a lie. Every time you open your mouth, you put this long engagement in jeopardy.”

“I know,” says Tony. He has enough softness for the both of them, so much for this dear friend of his who puts himself at risk. “I know you are right. I’ll—I will do better. I promise you.”

“I know all about your promises,” Rhodey says, though not without fondness. “I’ll take my leave now. What is it that you have planned for tonight? Or need I ask?”

Tony waves a hand over his writing desk, covered with papers. The smirk he wears is probably see-through. “Transcribing.”

“Of course. Thanks for helping him transcribe, _Peter_.”

When Tony turns, Peter is flushed red. He can’t help but laugh, hearing the click as Rhodey lets the bolt slide shut to give them privacy. Tony reaches out to push a stool towards the boy’s direction, and Peter looks as unsure as the first time, crossing the room with careful steps. Here, with no one looking at him except this honeyed boy, Tony feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders even as he sags in exhaustion.

“Tell me about your day.”

Peter smiles. “Yes, your grace.”

He tells Tony about waking before the sun. The banal chores he completed in the kitchens and in guest rooms which are steadily filling as more royals arrive from distant lands for Tony’s wedding to the Princess. Sometimes, there are bits of juicy gossip threaded into Peter’s stories. _You’d be surprised what people will say in front of a servant, _Peter says. But Tony isn’t surprised. He knows.

“And how was your day, my grace?”

_That_—that is one of the reasons why Tony is enamored with him. He asks questions, and he wants answers. Everything about him is courteous but nothing about him is courtesy. He knows nearly all there is to know about Tony know: the poor relationship with his father, his darling mother, the lovers that shaped his childhood and young adulthood.

“My day, love? It was awful, but it is at last improving.”

Months since they’ve begun these talks and still Peter flushes like a maiden at the slightest flirtation from the prince. Months, and he still calls Tony by his titles—and Tony is far too proud to ask him a second time. The boy will call him by his name when he’s ready, when he is comfortable. If the time ever comes.

The mortality of the situation settles over him like a fog. He can’t help but move to the window, stumbling a little in his drunkenness. “Peter, tell me what you think of the Princess.”

Is it just in his head, how long the silence lasts?

“Her grace is lovely,” Peter says at length. “I’ve never seen a woman with hair the color of fire before. She is kind and—and she will make a lovely queen.”

When he turns back around, Peter is weeping, hands clasped tightly. With his head bowed, the tears drip into his lap. Tony knows it’s love, then, that he feels for this boy. Only love could hurt this much.

-

At least once a day, he takes time to see his betrothed. It, and she, are his duties now. He has taken to calling her Pepper because of the freckles sprinkled across her nose, and the smile she gives him when he does is indulgent but humored.

Today they walk through the gardens. Flowers bloom, bees weaving among them, and Pepper is one of the only women he’s ever met who doesn’t shirk away from them as they buzz by. _They don’t mean us harm,_ she says. She is smart and quick, and he thinks they might have even come to love each other if circumstances were different. Peter trails them, standing out amongst the green in his red tunic marked with the Stark insignia. The sun turns his hair gold, and he wonders if the boy freckles or tans.

Pepper touches his arm. They link limbs. When they first met as children, she was tall for her age, and she is still taller than him now. He doesn’t mind it so much except it feels awkward for their arms to be folded together as such. Peter is nearly Tony’s own height, and though they’ve never linked arms this way to walk through the gardens, he imagines that it must feel like the most comfortable, natural thing in the world.

“Anthony,” she says. “I know that betrothals are becoming rather old fashioned in modern court. I know that—I might not be the sort of woman you hoped to marry. But as queen, I will respect you and your people. _Our_ people. And I hope very much that we can at least be true friends.”

Tony’s stomach feels sour. How could he ever be friendly with this woman who will come between him and Peter? And the dread he feels at that acknowledgement fills every crevice inside him left by Howard’s tyranny over his mother. This woman is not yet his wife and _already he has failed her. _

He lies when he says, “I am sure of it.”

-

On his way back to his chambers after the stroll around the gardens, he can’t help it. He can’t help wanting to burn away his betrothed’s touch from his skin, for Peter to wash it away. Stark men aren’t known for their self-control; that’s another thing that he learned as a little boy. Blind with fear and self-loathing and love, he grabs Peter and presses him into an alcove, kisses him breathless. Peter tastes like lemon water, tart, and not the sour taste of wine that he’s sure the boy is sampling from his own mouth.

“Your grace,” Peter gasps when Tony moves his mouth down over the sharp jaw to suck a blooming bruise on the slender neck. He grasps Tony’s shoulders, sometimes pulling him closer, sometimes pushing him away. “Someone might see!”

“Let them,” he growls.

Only he doesn’t mean that. He knows he doesn’t mean it, because when he ends up in his father’s chambers later that day, he feels none of the pride or comfort that he should feel about being caught with a lover. Instead, he just feels cold.

“I’m proud of you,” his father says, eyes glittering. The golden crown he wears outside of his chamber is off and resting on the table beside him. It must weigh so much, Tony thinks. Far too much for his head to bear. These words his father says—there was a time when he would have thirsted to hear them. Now they just fill him with dread.

“What have I done,” asks Tony. “To deserve such an honor?”

Howard strokes his white facial hair. It hurts to see this man grow old when his own mother never did. How gentle she would have looked, soft and wrinkled and white haired. “Taking a male lover is smart. No matter which hole you want to fuck, you can’t get a bastard in him, can you?”

And as much as Tony wants to be with Peter, to show him to the world—he wishes that he never would have shown him to this man.

-

“I don’t want to marry her,” Tony says into Peter’s hair. During the day, Tony wears a circlet of gold, but Peter has a crown all his own: a crown of curls that smell of sweet soap and now sweat from their lovemaking. In his chambers with Peter is the only place he feels safe enough to admit it. The thought alone brings the bitter sting of tears to his eyes. On the wall is a tapestry his mother made, silver threads looking like liquid in the candlelight. He misses her.

“You must,” says Peter, hand flat over Tony’s solemn heart.

“Don’t tell me that. Tell me exactly what I want to hear.”

He can feel Peter smile. “Is that an order, your grace?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you don’t have to marry her. You can marry me,” says the boy sleepily. As he talks, his voice grows softer. “I want chrysanthemums, and a dress made of silk so fine it’s almost see-through. We will wed at sunrise in the spring, and as soon as the ceremony is finished, we will sneak off to a nice meadow and make love in the grass.”

By the time Peter is finished talking, Tony is the one crying: silent tears that roll down the sides of his face and disappear into his hairline. It takes many minutes of silence for him to realize that Peter has fallen asleep. As carefully as he can, he pulls the blankets up around them both and sleeps, content only for that moment.

-

He and his father walk the battlements. The closer his wedding and coronation come, the more time they spend together alone under the guise of mentorship. Tony can remember a time when he was so young that he wasn’t tall enough see through the parapets here. Now he can see for miles and miles in every direction. It’s a beautiful land, and their kingdom wants for nothing. The seas teem with fish, the fields grow bountifully, the game is unparalleled. And in a matter of weeks, it will be his.

_All this_, he thinks, watching the sun set, _and I’m still not happy._

“Father.”

“Yes, Anthony?”

“Who would rule, if not me?”

Howard stops walking. He is bowed with age, but his voice is unchanged, the same voice who would shout at him and Maria, that would groan in ecstasy from the next room. “Whatever you are thinking, Anthony, _don’t_. Ever since you were a little boy it’s like every impulse that passed through your brain you had to see to fruition. It’s time to be a man and stop dishonoring your family. Listen to what your instincts are telling you to do, and then do the opposite.”

“Even if it makes me unhappy?”

“_Especially_ so. Happiness is fool’s gold. But then, you always were the little fool.”

Tony says nothing.

“What’s gotten into you, boy? Tell me.”

“I’m in love,” admits Tony.

“I don’t blame you,” says Howard. “Virginia is a pretty little thing. I tell you, when I was younger than you and looking for my own wife, royal blood was not nearly so pretty. It felt like going down to the stables to choose a horse—”

Tony grabs him by the shoulders. The crown tumbles off of his head and the sound gold makes when it strikes the stones is one Tony won’t soon forget. He commits Howard’s face to memory, wide, frightened eyes, mouth slack with terror. 

“When I am king,” says Tony, softly. “If you ever speak of my mother that way again, I’ll have you killed.”

The self-control it takes to keep from pushing the man off the battlements is legendary. Before he can make more mistakes than he already has, Tony turns and strides away. Inside the castle are his father’s personal guards, and he tells them that the old man isn’t feeling well and to escort him to his room.

Then Tony takes that same advice, retiring to his personal chambers, where he stays for the rest of the night.

-

“Tell me about yourself,” Tony asks. They are laying together in one of those lazy in-between moments that comes after sex and before sleep. This is the closest Tony gets to feeling safe, to feeling invincible, to feeling loved. If he could only stay here forever, trap this lovely young man in his bed… “Working in the castle, I’m sure you know everything about me, but I feel like I know nothing about you. Tell me about your family, how you came to work here. Anything.”

Peter hums. He traces patterns on Tony’s chest, thumb brushing into the hollow of his sternum. “Well, my parents died when I was very young. I don’t even remember them—not their faces or their voices. My aunt and uncle raised me, and they were very much like parents to me. I was just a boy when my uncle grew sick and died. After that, everything became much more difficult for us. I was too young to help with most work that men were expected to do and we struggled to live on my aunt’s wages alone. There were many nights that we had to split portions of food between us that were barely meant for one.

“She told me that my best chance in life would be to come to the castle and ask for work. I’d have a warm bed in the winter, there would always be enough food for me. I’ll never forget how we cried and cried together the night before I left to come here. I try to go into town once a week to visit her. Life is easier for her without me. She seems healthier now. _Happy_. Though, she always says she misses me.” Peter turns his chin up to smile softly. “Isn’t that sweet, your grace?”

Tony thinks its all rather tragic. “How old were you when you came here?”

“Eight. It’s hard to believe that ten years have gone. It seems like just yesterday that the serving girls and boys took me under their wings.” Peter goes red, licks his lips. “They used to draw straws to see who would get to serve at the high table. Any boy or girl who caught your eye considered themselves lucky.”

“Did you?”

“Hm?”

“Did you draw a straw for the chance to serve me?”

“Have you seen yourself? Of course I drew! My luck is terrible. Though—” Peter smiles. “—it certainly has been _good_ luck lately.”

-

The hour is late when there is a pounding on the door. Tony startles awake thinking it’s mother, mother is dying—but his mother died years ago. If anything, it is his father who could be dying, he thinks, quickly pulling on breeches. If the fright he gave the old man earlier is any indication, his heart probably gave out.

Peter sits up with his back against the headboard, pulling the covers up to his chin. In the dim light from the grate, he is pale with fear.

When Tony throws open the door, it is Rhodey who bursts in.

“What have you done?” Rhodey says.

“I can’t imagine,” says Tony. “But it must be terrible if you had to wake me in the night. For a moment, I thought that Howard might have died, did you know? Most people wait until more respectable hours—”

“You will probably wish that he had. Your father has changed the date of the wedding. You’re to be wed as soon as possible—this week, even. What could you have possibly done, Tony? Tell me!”

It’s Tony’s turn to become pale with fear. The strength goes out of his legs and he stumbles to collapse in a chair. Peter cries out, rolling from the bed to tug on clothes. Rhodey pours him wine that he drinks in one long swallow, and by the time his glass is empty, Peter is there at his knees, clutching one of Tony’s hands in comfort.

“This _week_?—I—I can’t do it,” says Tony. His hands shake and he drops the glass, but no one moves to pick it up. “I thought I’d have more time. Time to think of _something_—”

“You are the prince,” Peter says. Who knew that a smile could be so sad? He leans his head against Tony’s leg, and Tony buries a hand into those curls tangled from their lovemaking and their sleep. Across the room, Rhodey watches with solemn eyes. “You have to marry the princess. That’s how all the stories go.”

“Not my story,” Tony croaks.

“This doesn’t have to be the end,” suggests Peter. Tears cling to his lashes. “I don’t care if you marry her. She can have your children, she can be your queen, I won’t mind it! I’ll still be yours. I’ll _always_ be yours if you’ll have me.”

It’s the worst thing Peter could have said. It tears at Tony’s heart, tortures him. What kind of man is he, if he becomes his own father? It is the stuff of nightmares.

“You’re right,” Rhodey says, startling them from their tender moment. He stands with his back to them, staring out the window, though it is too dark to see. “Maybe…this doesn’t have to be the end.”

“What do you mean?” asks Peter. “What other choice is there?”

“No _good_ choice,” Rhodey admits. “But maybe a choice you could be happy with. Give me one hour.”

Rhodey disappears as swiftly as he arrived. Peter cries in earnest once he is gone. Tony joins him on the stone floor even though his knees ache, their arms wrapped around each other without a hairsbreadth in between. It still doesn’t feel close enough. “I knew this was coming,” the young man admits. “But I didn’t think it would be so hard. I don’t want to part from you. But what choice do we have?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know.”

They are still there when Rhodey creeps back in through the door just under an hour later. Over his shoulder are two bags—and it’s at the sight of them that Tony knows what Rhodey’s plan is, what Rhodey intends for them to do.

“I’m my father’s only heir,” he whispers as they creep through the castle, Peter tucked to his side.

“Let the old bastard figure that problem out for himself,” Rhodey hisses. They pause to avoid a guard who is walking his route sluggishly. Once the man is gone, they begin to move again, clinging to the shadows, walking with light steps.

“Where will we go?” asks Peter.

“Anywhere but here,” Rhodey says. “Don’t mistake me. It won’t be easy—all the neighboring kingdoms are nearly in ruin. Wherever you go, you will have to carve out a life for yourselves, carve it from stone it might seem. But you will be together. Is that what you want? Tell me, now is the time. What is more important?”

Tony links arms with Peter. He is right; it is comfortable, like they have been doing it all their lives. “We’re wasting breath, I think.”

Underneath the castle, the corridors are damp and cold, musty smelling from disuse. Their steps, no matter how careful, echo all around them, and more than once Tony looks over their shoulders, convinced he will see the hunched form of his father following them. By the time they make it through the labyrinth and to the exit, the door screeching on its hinges, the sky is just hinting at the possibility of a morning: deep, dark blue.

Peter goes out first, Rhodey’s hand holding open the door.

Next goes Tony. He pauses, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. Inside is clothes, food, currency. The tapestry from the wall in his bedroom, Opus Anglicanum. “Rhodey—you’re the greatest man I ever knew. The only friend I ever had. What will I do without you?”

Rhodey snorts softly. They embrace, and it is no easy thing for Tony to let go. “You’ll figure something out. You always figure something out.”

He stands there, watching. Tony glances back often enough on their way to the forest until they enter the tree line and then he can see Rhodey no more. His heart aches even as it feels lighter than it has in years.

“Where should we go?” Peter asks as they walk. He looks lighter himself, steps bouncing.

“Anywhere you want,” says Tony. “North will take us to the ocean eventually, so much larger than the sea. East is wetlands. South will brings mountains which might be difficult to climb. And west—well. West is nothing remarkable at all, so I hear.”

Peter hums. “Nothing remarkable. Sounds lovely.”

They link arms again. “West it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> i swore to myself i wouldn't go over 5k and i hit it pretty much on the mark. this wasn't the best. i hope you can forgive me <3 come talk on tumblr: cagestark


End file.
